poets, too!--statesmen would consult its opinions, and its
editor (and deep down inside Nort saw himself with incomparable
vividness as that very editor), its editor would sway the destinies of
the nation. As he talked he began to swing his arms, he increased his
pace until he was a step or two ahead of Anthy, walking so quickly at
times that she could scarcely keep up with him. Apparently he forgot
that she was there--only he didn't quite. Apparently he was talking
impersonally to the tree tops and the south wind and the stars--only he
wasn't, really. When they came to the gate of Anthy's home, Nort walked
straight past it and did not discover for a moment or two that Anthy had
stopped.
When he came back Anthy was standing, a dim figure, in the gateway.
"Well," he said, "I've been doing all the talking----"
Anthy's low laugh sounded clear in the night air.
"Your picture of a reconstructed country newspaper is irresistible!"
"It could be done!" said Nort. "It could be done right here in
Hempfield. Brains and energy will count anywhere, Miss Doane. Why, we
could make the Hempfield _Star_ one of the most quoted journals in
America--or in the world!"
They stood silent for a moment there at the gate. Nort was not looking
at Anthy, or thought he was not, but long afterward he had only to close
his eyes, and the whole scene came back to him: the dim old house rising
among its trees, the wide sky and the stars overhead, and the slight
figure of Anthy there in the gateway. And the very odour and feel of the
night----
Anthy was turning to walk up the pathway.
"One week more," said Nort.
"One week more," responded Anthy.
Now there is nothing either mystical or poetical about any one of these
three words-one--week--more--or about all of them together, and yet Nort
once repeated them for me as though they had some peculiar or esoteric
significance. They merely meant that there was another week before Ed
Smith returned. A week is enough for youth!
[Illustration]
CHAPTER IX
A LETTER TO LINCOLN
Reaching this point in my narrative I lean back in my chair--the coals
are dying down in the fireplace, Harriet long ago went to bed, and the
house is silent with a silence that one can hear--I lean back and think
again of that moment in Anthy's life.
I have before me an open letter, a letter so often opened and so often
folded again that the creases are worn thin. I keep it in the drawer of
my desk w
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